Time Lord ex Machina
by The Winged Lion of Coruscant
Summary: While filming a documentary based on his most recent exploits, the Doctor is highly discomfited when a studio director suggests that the TARDIS does not make for good drama ... Cracky, fluffy slash. Master/Doctor. Christmas fic for Pliva.


Author's Note:

This story was written as a Christmas exchange/gift fic for the excellent Who-fic-writer Pliva, who's currently writing an absolutely brilliant Master/Doctor Season 4 AU, which I encourage you to check out at some point. ;D I'm not … perfectly happy with how it came out – the plotbunny jumped me late at night and it made more sense when I wrote it, and for some reason, I couldn't get either of their voices right in my head, and the ending is kind of blah – but I think I've tinkered with it too much at this point, so … better to just post it. So here it is. Anyways. Merry (late) Christmas, Pliva!

* * *

Time Lord ex Machina

"But – but – you can't _do_ that!" The Doctor looked apologetic, but continued, "I'm sorry – so sorry – but you really can't do that! That wasn't how it _was_. Well, when I say how it was, I mean, of course, how it was depicted in a way that your viewers would understand, but still, you can't just –"

The director glared at him. "No one wants to see that." He pulled on his short, brown ponytail and let out the long-suffering sigh of a rational being who has had to deal with the Doctor for more than five minutes. "What it was really like doesn't _matter_. It's a _deus ex machina_ – and that's something you really can't do, not if you want your audience to pay any attention at all."

The Master grinned, looking down on the brightly lit studio set from where he was sitting in the sound booth. "I told you so," he mouthed to the Doctor, who frowned at him. The Master's smirk grew. Ah, the joys of political maneuvering.

What a _great_ way to introduce the Doctor to propaganda!

He had been expecting just another ordinary day when he'd woken up in the TARDIS this morning: saving whatever planet the Doctor decided to visit today and then running away once it was all over (followed by an enjoyable evening in the TARDIS – he had _plans_). They'd done the first part, sure enough – saved a planet by figuring out exactly where and when the alien swarm threatening it came from and then sending them back there – but hadn't quite achieved the second. Instead, they'd ended up besieged by an adoring populace (the Master had nearly shuddered when a small child had attempted to hug him) and then ferried away by the Lord President to supervise a "documentary" that had spontaneously been created to record the situation "for posterity".

Which was why the Doctor was currently dealing with an irate director while the Master amused himself in the sound booth. He had a vague plan to "accidentally" wipe all the audio recordings they'd done for the documentary (he'd already saved the planet, after all – he had to let himself have _some_ fun), but that was currently being put on the backburner as he watched the drama taking place in front of him play out. He adjusted his headphones and sat back in his chair, ignoring the technicians attempting to do their jobs around him while he listened in on the conversation.

"Look, Doctor. You're a wonderful – ah, person, saving the planet and – but – _Doctor_ – you've got _terrible_ dramatic instincts." The director tugged on his ponytail again, then shrugged. "Sorry."

The Doctor squawked in indignation. The Doctor disagreed – first eloquently, and then, later, less so. The Doctor glowered. The Doctor gave the director – and anyone else who was looking at him (including one unfortunate pizza boy who really didn't have anything to do with it but now was probably scarred for life, much to the Master's glee) – his patented "the-savior-of-your-world-is-disappointed-in-you" look. The Doctor marched out endless arguments about historical accuracy and future generations and the legacy of this current generation.

In the end, the actors portraying the Doctor and the Controller (it would be bad propaganda, apparently, to call him "the Master" – the Lord President had been all for glorifying the saviors of his beautiful water-planet, but not above his own government) teleported onto the scene through the use of a device that the plucky young scientists who were trying to save the planet had created – _not_ a TARDIS.

"There was only scientist and she was neither plucky nor young," the Doctor grumbled when he next saw the Master (roughly two hours later). The Doctor was perched on the bottom ledge of a fake waterfall located right outside the studio, his feet swinging beneath him. He looked harried and bewildered and somewhat disappointed; his blue shirt was rumpled, his tie was askew, and his hair was standing up in an even more tangled formation than usual.

The Master decided that right now, the Doctor's hair was just _begging_ to be played with. So he sat down on the ledge above the one the Doctor was sitting on and tugged on one of the dark brown strands. Obediently, the Doctor tilted his head back to allow the Master better access; the Master began trailing his fingers across the Doctor's scalp, teasing the other Time Lord's hair into all sorts of ridiculous shapes. The Doctor murmured in contentment and closed his eyes, resting his head against the Master.

"It _is_ a valid argument, you know," the Master said, after a few moments. "We _do_ travel around the universe in a blue box, Doctor. And we – though I use the plural pronoun as loosely as possible – _are_ rather god-like. I'm afraid it just doesn't make for good storytelling, Doctor." He wondered if the Doctor would mind if he pulled his hair up into a faux mohawk …

The Doctor frowned, his eyes still closed. "Mmmmm … But it's _real_," he replied, at last. "It actually happened, so you can't make it up, because then that would be –"

"What, exactly?" the Master asked, with genuine amusement.

"Fake!" the Doctor replied, after a few moments of silence, his eyes snapping open. "It would be fake!"

"But – Doctor – if you really are so adamant about truthfulness, why allow them to change _my_ name? Why allow them to multiply the amount of scientists by five and divide their actual ages by the same number? What makes an edit to the historical record acceptable?" He paused, for effect, and then grinned (evilly, of course). "Enlighten me, Doctor."

"Well, your name – I thought it might be a wise idea not to have them going around worshipping someone called 'the Master', in case of future incidents, and so I let them change that. And the scientists – well – they don't _really_ have that many good older actors, do they? But then they call our appearance from out of the TARDIS a 'deus ex machina' and _that's_ when I have to say no, because it _wasn't_. It was normal! The TARDIS is simply how we travel – well, when I say simply, of course, I mean –"

The Master jerked one strand of the Doctor's hair lightly, and the other Time Lord stopped rambling. "So what you're saying is, you're too proud of the TARDIS to let them take her out of the movie they're making? Pride in your ship. How very _human_, Doctor." His fingers stilled.

The Doctor pressed his head up into the Master's hands, remaining mute until the other resumed toying with his hair. "It's just a brilliant story all ready, that's all," he said (rather petulantly). "It doesn't _need_ editing. _I_ saved the planet by figuring out the exact temporal codes to return the – well, you know already, anyways. It's a good story – they don't _need_ to edit it when they're making it into a movie_._"

"You're getting cranky," the Master observed. "This is you throwing a temper tantrum." The Doctor pouted, and the Master nearly laughed. "I didn't know I'd have to _babysit_, Doctor, when I came aboard the TARDIS," he continued.

The Doctor chose not to say anything at all. Further discussion of the circumstances under which the Master had entered the TARDIS could get awkward (all sorts of allegations about Lucy and the Year that Never Was); and besides – he simply didn't consider the Master's childish taunts worthy of a retort. Certainly not. Definitely not.

He was opening his mouth to fire off a witty reply when the Master said, "We should leave."

"We can't though," the Doctor said, his voice quite miserable. "The director – wait, wait, wait, I _know_ I know his name – Peter – no – Pete – _Tom_, that's it, Tom. Tom needs us to stay around to give him the details about how exactly we saved this planet." He tried a grin. "And it is exciting, being in a studio – all those lights and the actors and the cameras and –"

"Doctor." The Master's mouth was right next to the Doctor's ear, his fingers still twirling circles in the Doctor's hair. His voice was a low growl that made the Doctor involuntarily shiver. "I can think of several good reasons why we should go back to the TARDIS. Now."

The Doctor swallowed audibly. "Well – I suppose we could maybe, just this once, perhaps leave them on their own – and it's not as though the world's in danger anymore anyways – and it really is –"

"Good." The Master, on a whim, reached one hand down and hooked it around the Doctor's legs, then stood up, so that he was balanced precariously on the ledge, holding the Doctor bridal-style, the other Time Lord all elbows and knees and overcoat in his arms. "Let's go."

The Doctor protested briefly, the undignified nature of his current position not bothering him quite as much as the fact that the Master was holding him_ while standing on one of the slippery ledges of rock inside a fake waterfall._

So the Master jumped off the ledge and landed on the ground and the Doctor quieted down and they walked back to the TARDIS like some sort of awkward, multi-limbed, Time-creature. The gods returned to their box and were gone within moments.


End file.
